Call Upon My Soul
by MissTempleton
Summary: It turns out Miss Fisher isn't the only one who can't venture out of doors without someone being murdered. Dot appears to be developing the same problem. "Call upon my soul within the house" Shakespeare, Twelfth Night
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

A young couple sat in the back row of St Peter's. The perambulator in the aisle next to the man was the sole evidence of their reason to be there, but for the moment, its occupants were peaceful and the couple were undisturbed.

This was perhaps as well. His arm was along the back of the pew, and her head rested in the hollow of his shoulder. Their eyes were closed.

They were not enjoying an illicit embrace in the House of God.

They were sound asleep.

As the church clock chimed the hour, the young man stirred and his eyes edged open. Coming to sudden awareness, he turned to his companion.

"Dottie!" he whispered urgently. "Dottie, wake up! We've fallen asleep, and we're due to be seeing Father Ryan!"

His heart wrenched at the very evident struggle she had to open her eyes. He'd been having a tough time getting through his working days on interrupted nights, but she had been taking most of the burden of dealing with their twin babies, and increasingly, when the twins were asleep, her body automatically responded in the most sensible way it could.

"Oh, Hugh …" she breathed wretchedly. "Do you remember what eight hours' sleep at night used to feel like?"

He smiled encouragingly, and passed a thumb around the darkening under her eyes. "It won't be for ever, Dot."

"I know …" she replied. "It feels like it right now, though."

They shared a sympathetic gaze, and as Dot felt her eyelids drooping again, forced herself upright.

"What time is it?"

"Just gone two o'clock – it was the chiming of the clock that woke me."

"That's odd," Dot commented, her brow furrowing. "We were supposed to meet Father Ryan at one thirty. Do you think he's forgotten?"

"Or …" Hugh gave her a shamefaced look, "do you think he found us asleep and decided to leave us be?"

Dot flushed. "We should go and look for him. Come on."

Mr & Mrs Collins pushed the pram containing their two firstborn to the front of the church, and round to the sacristy. Dot hesitated.

"I don't quite like to …"

"Surely we should at least knock, Dot? He might be waiting for us."

She bit her lip, and then nodded. Stepping forward, she tapped hesitantly on the door to the sacristy.

"Hello? Father Ryan?" The door swung slightly open. Greatly daring, she peeked around the corner.

"Father? It's Dorothy and Hugh Collins … we …. Oh!"

She stopped abruptly, because it was very clear that Father Ryan wasn't the slightest bit interested in their presence, or even their children's forthcoming baptism. He would have been more interested in the knife which was currently lodged under his ribcage, were it not for the fact that it had allowed a great deal of blood to be lost.

The briefest of examinations by off-duty Senior Constable Collins confirmed what was rather self-evident:

Father Ryan was dead.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

"Miss Fisher's residence, Mr Butler speaking."

"Mr Butler, it's Hugh Collins. Er … can I ask, is the Inspector there … by any chance?" One could hear in Hugh's voice the way he was squirming under the burden of knowledge that the answer was almost certainly _Yes_.

"I believe he may be – would you like to speak to him?"

"I'm afraid so, Mr B – if it wasn't urgent, I wouldn't ask."

"This may take a little while, Constable – hold on."

Mr Butler placed the receiver on the table and trod up the stairs of 221B The Esplanade. Stopping outside one of the doors, he tapped gently.

"Just a minute!" came a voice from inside.

A moment later, a tousled head of black hair appeared round the door; the Honourable Phryne Fisher had hastily wrapped a _chinoiserie_ robe around herself, and now looked at her factotum enquiringly.

"This had better be good, Mr Butler."

"I'm very sorry, Miss. Constable Collins is on the telephone, asking to speak to the Inspector. He says it's urgent."

"I think I'm prepared to take Constable Collins at his word. Righty ho, Mr B, I'll send the Inspector down in two ticks."

Closing the door, she leaned against it and chuckled at the sight of Detective Inspector Jack Robinson hastily pulling on a pair of trousers.

"You could have borrowed one of my robes, Jack – I'm sure Mr B wouldn't mind."

"He might not, but I would have," he growled. "Allow me a shred of dignity, Phryne. Where on earth's my shirt?"

She scanned the room, including a quick glance at the chandelier (based on one particularly memorable past experience). The shirt had somehow become draped over her dressing table mirror.

"Here you are." She held it for him and he slipped his arms in, doing up the buttons as he ran barefoot down the stairs and picked up the receiver.

"Jack Robinson".

"Sir, I'm sorry to disturb you on your day off, but I think you're going to want to come over to St Peter's."

Jack closed his eyes. "Collins, I'm struggling to imagine anything that I would want to do less than visit a church right now."

As he spoke, a sly hand snaked around his chest and undid one of the buttons on his shirt again, sliding inside. Absently, instead of slapping it away, he covered the hand with his own and laced their fingers. A head settled on his back, just above his shoulder blade. Blessings came in all shapes and sizes, after all.

"Not for Mass, sir. There's been a murder."

At this, the head lifted abruptly. Clearly, Phryne could hear every word.

Jack sighed.

"On my way, Collins. And call the coroner's office, would you?"

He replaced the receiver. Removing the hand carefully from under his shirt, he turned to its owner.

"I suppose it's useless to suggest that you stay here and avoid getting involved, Miss Fisher?"

Phryne grinned cheerfully.

"Quite useless, Inspector. Dot will need me. They were both there, it was one of their meetings about the twins' baptism. Anyway, you know me better than that."

He quirked a smile.

"I can't deny that I do … know you quite well these days."

His words were accompanied by a sly finger running across her abdomen, across a particular spot that would make her give an involuntary shudder. With a gasp, she backed away, then turned and ran up the stairs, calling back over her shoulder in harried tones.

"I'll be dressed in a jiffy – ask Mr B to bring the car round!"

Mr Butler appeared in the doorway.

"I will fetch the Hispano, Inspector." As Mr B effaced himself, Jack turned to follow Phryne up the stairs, and attempt to locate the rest of his clothes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

The Hispano-Suiza screeched to a halt in Cobden St, so Jack released his (rather firm) hold on his hat and (rather less firm) hold on Phryne's thigh, clad in suitably modest blues and greens which had last seen the light of day at Ascot Racecourse.

As they descended from the car, they received a wave from Mrs Collins, who was seated in the sunshine outside the church, with the pram, whose contents appeared mercifully still to be asleep.

"Miss, I'm so glad you're here!" whispered Dot, which earned Jack an "I-told-you-so" look from Phryne.

"Hugh's in the sacristy still, with the body. It's Father Ryan, Miss. Who on earth would kill a priest?"

"We shall find out in due course, Dot," replied Phryne briskly. "Inspector, shall we go and inspect the deceased? Wait here, Dorothy, I shall be out presently. I need to talk to you."

They made their way into the cool of the church.

"I need to talk to Hugh even more," remarked Phryne to Jack, _sotto voce_. "I don't know what he's been doing to that poor girl, but she's positively wasting away. Your Senior Constable has some explaining to do, Inspector."

"Before you tar and feather the poor chap, you might want to bear in mind that I found him nodding off at the front desk yesterday morning," retorted Jack. "I suspect that the answer lies with two young people called Margaret and Gideon – or Meggie and Gid, as I believe they are affectionately known. By the people who hold them in affection."

Phryne rolled her eyes.

"Why do people do it, Jack? Have babies, I mean?"

He shrugged.

"I suppose we'd all like to be immortal; having a child is at least one way to live, if not forever, then certainly a lot longer than threescore years and ten. It's a living legacy."

There was something in his tone that made her glance sharply at him, but by that time they'd reached the sacristy, and Hugh Collins met them at the door.

"Inspector, Miss Fisher – I've touched nothing apart from confirming that he's dead," said Hugh worriedly.

"Thank you, Collins," said Jack. "Do you have any feel for time of death?"

"He was still warm when we found him, sir, which would make sense."

"How do you mean, make sense?" asked Phryne.

"Well …" Hugh Collins was clearly uncomfortable. Jack took pity.

"Talk me through what you know of the timings, Collins."

"Well, sir, we were due to have a meeting at one-thirty, to talk about the twins' baptism." Hugh hesitated, and cleared his throat a little. "Dot and I got here at around one-fifteen, and the church was empty when we arrived so we sat down to wait."

"But that's perfect, Hugh!" exclaimed Phryne. "You could have been here when the murder took place! Tell us what you saw."

There was a short silence, during which Hugh's eyes were anywhere other than on his interlocutors.

"Did you see anything at all, Collins?" Jack asked quietly.

"Er, no. No, sir. No." Hugh admitted.

"Were you perhaps … not in the church for that time?" pressed his superior officer.

"No sir – I mean, yes sir. We were in the church," Hugh cast around for any possible source of help, and gave up. "It's a warm day sir, and a good walk to get here … and the walk put the twins to sleep, and so we just sat down quietly in the back of the pews …"

"… and fell asleep," guessed Jack.

Hugh flushed.

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

"Unsurprising in the circumstances, Collins, don't worry about it." And with that, the flaw was removed from the discussion once and for all. Phryne speculated briefly as to how it would be dealt with in the obligatory report, but decided Jack would find a way to cover for his man there, too. "So, no-one at all in or around the building when you arrived or when you found the body?"

"No, sir." Responding immediately to the Inspector's professionalism, Hugh was once more on the front foot.

"There are only three entrances to the building, sir – the main door, the north door that the priests and celebrants use, that leads to the sacristy, and the door to the bell tower. The bell tower's separate, and there's a door from that which leads into the body of the church – so really, there were only two ways to get to the sacristy – through the church, or through the north door."

"So, either the murderer sneaked past you and Mrs Collins – or they came in through the north door," mused Jack.

Phryne wandered over to the outside door, giving the body a wide berth, and tried the door with her gloved hand.

It opened – with a geriatric creaking and groaning. She raised her eyebrows at the policemen.

"If they came in this way, they _had_ to be expected." Closing the door again, she meandered around the room as Jack homed in on the body.

"A stiletto, by the look of it. Brutal, efficient."

"Jack, look." Phryne had stopped by the mantelpiece, pointing to a small glass – normally used to hold communion wine. There appeared to be some dregs of wine in the bottom. She picked it up and sniffed it – and recoiled.

"Not sure I like St Peters' taste in port, Hugh!" she remarked. "Should we take it for examination, Jack?"

"Definitely," he said. "Collins, can you hunt around for something we can put it in? And the bottle, too."

Phryne had continued on her travels, and arrived at the shelf with the glassware.

" _That's_ interesting …" she reached out, and picked up another glass in a gloved hand.

"Look – condensation on the glass, and just this one – someone has washed it up, and recently, I'm guessing."

"But why not wash both glasses?" asked Jack, perplexed.

"No idea," she responded, and popped the second suspect into a second bag supplied by the resourceful Constable Collins.

As she did so, the door from the church opened and reinforcements from the on-duty force arrived to continue proceedings. Jack and Hugh got down to the tedious work of recording the event, and Phryne sauntered out of the north door into the sunshine, in search of her exhausted assistant.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

"Poor Dot," said Phryne. She might not understand those who signed up to the responsibilities of babies, but friends were friends, and compassion second nature.

Dorothy smiled wanly.

"Oh, Miss, please don't think it's that bad. They're ours, you see? No matter how badly you want them to just feed, or rest, you can't resent them for it." She glanced into the pram. "I know you don't see it this way, but they're our miracles, these two."

"But isn't there anything you can do to get a few hours off?" asked Phryne. "I know Hugh's mother's still angry, but they're her grandchildren – and what about your mother?"

"They both have long families of their own to take care of, Miss," sniffed Dot, "and they disagree on just about everything, I think, except the idea that Hugh and I have to cope just as they did."

At that, even Phryne was stumped. The temptation to tell Dot to have a snooze in the sun while she, Phryne Fisher, took the twins for a spin around the block in the pram was immense; but she felt her own ability to cope was about as remote as the possibility that Dorothy Collins would entrust her revolver-wielding, fast-driving, morally-flexible employer with her precious babies.

"Leave it with me, Dot, I'll think of something. I've got to – you're my strong right hand and I can't be without you."

Dorothy really did smile at that. "Oh, Miss, you did without me for years – surely a few weeks until the twins are sleeping through can't be too bad?"

Phryne sent up a silent prayer to St Jude in the face of such artless confidence in a hopeless cause. _Weeks? Oh, Dot._

They were interrupted by two off-duty police officers striding around the side of the church. If warm glances had been an undersupplied market, said company would have instantly created a glut.

Jack spoke first.

"We've reported to the Diocese, who are going to get in touch with details of Father Ryan's next of kin. Had he been here long, Dot?"

"No, Inspector," she replied. "Only about six months. We're his first parish since he arrived in Australia, from Ireland."

"I don't suppose you know where the rectory is?" asked Jack.

Dot nodded. "It's just round the corner in Napier St."

Jack smiled his thanks. "I should go there now – care to join me, Miss Fisher? Oh, and we're invited to receive Dr Mac's version of events on Monday morning, first thing."

Instantly, Gid – or possibly Meggie, only a fond parent would have known – started to wail; and Meggie – or otherwise, Gid – joined in.

Phryne looked approvingly at the twins.

"I'm delighted to see that there are at least two other members of the population of God's earth who feel about the phrase 'first thing' the same way that I do." She fixed the Inspector with A Look.

"Let there be no doubt, Jack, that 'First Thing' in this case is going to require at least one gasper and a Turkish coffee, or it won't occur."

Jack gave a small bow.

"I will make sure that Mr Butler is thoroughly briefed, Miss Fisher." He offered her his arm.

They walked down the path to the gate of the church, followed by Hugh, Dot, and the squalling children, and anything that Phryne might have had to say about the need for briefs First Thing on a Monday morning was lost to the infant chorus.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

If anyone had asked Phryne to describe a rectory, it probably would have involved crumbling stonework, stewed tea and a retainer with an incontinence issue.

It was hard, therefore, to reconcile herself to the premises in Napier St.

"Come in, please!" exclaimed the young lady who answered the door, her golden hair forming what appeared to be almost a halo around her head. She was dressed plainly, with an apron covering her blouse and skirt.

Jack and Phryne exchanged glances.

 _Young lady?_

"I'm so sorry, we're in the middle of story time, but if you wouldn't mind going into the parlour, I can be with you shortly."

They dutifully walked into the front room and assumed suitably grownup poses in what appeared to be, to all intents and purposes, a nursery.

Phryne experimented with sitting in a wing chair, and leaped up again quite promptly when she discovered an unexpected model of St Patrick's Cathedral on the cushion.

Jack failed to hide a smile, mostly because letting Phryne see it was more fun; and her revenge was sweet when he stepped on to a wooden truck and staggered back to his feet only thanks to a handy and supportive aspidistra.

Open warfare of a thoroughly childish nature was avoided when the young lady re-entered the room.

"Thank you for waiting – I would have let somebody else finish, but when someone else does the voices, it's never the same, is it?"

Jack agreed that it wasn't, and showed her his badge. All of a sudden, the atmosphere was decidedly grownup.

"I'm sorry, miss but I don't know your name?"

She smiled. "Evangeline Stubbs." She went to sit on the same chair Phryne had just rejected, and neatly removed the ecclesiastical architecture. Phryne looked in her purse for her card.

"How can I help you, Inspector?" Her open glance at the man Phryne had long since decided was the finest of Melbourne's finest took a little … ignoring. His response was, she decided, culpably suave, tempered with a hint of professional gravitas, dropping his voice to an octave that she could have sworn was her personal territory.

"Miss Stubbs," he said. Invitingly. How dare he? For God's sake, he was even giving her his card.

"Detective Inspector Jack Robinson." He gave Miss Stubbs that half-smile and little head tilt. The last time Phryne'd seen those was when she'd worn her sables. Actually, strictly speaking, it was when she'd taken off her sables and accidentally-on-purpose taken off Madame Fleuri's latest triumph at the same time.

She still had her card in her hand, but it was becoming a little crumpled at the edges.

"And I'm Phryne Fisher, Detective, Miss Stubbs," she added sweetly, handing over her slightly mangled card.

Jack didn't bat an eyelid, but possibly experienced a spine extension of an inch or so. That could happen when Phryne's voice jarred on a C double sharp.

With no more than a mild twitch of the lips, he pressed on with the investigation.

"Miss Stubbs, I presume you know Father Ryan?"

She looked at him in surprise.

"Well, of course, Our priest here at St Peter's. Why?"

Jack looked at Phryne and concluded this task had been left to him.

"I'm sorry, Miss Stubbs, but Father Ryan is dead."

Miss Stubbs paled. "Dead? How can that be? He was quite a young man."

"I'm afraid he's been murdered, Miss," Jack said gently.

"But that's awful!" Her eyes were filling with tears. "Who on earth would do such a thing?"

"That's what we hope to find out, Miss Stubbs," said Phryne briskly. "Can I ask what your role is here?"

"Oh, I just help out with the children, Miss Fisher. Father kindly lets us use the rectory for a nursery hour every day." She seemed dazed. "This is extraordinary. Why would anyone kill Father Ryan? I don't think he had an enemy in the world."

"Would it be possible for us to search his rooms, Miss? I apologise for the necessity," Jack added, "but I'm sure you appreciate that we must move as quickly as possible."

She acquiesced, and showed them to Father Ryan's study, closing the door behind her as she left.

Phryne sat at the desk, and started pulling out the drawers; Jack found a diary and leafed through it. However, their search for anything untoward was fruitless.

"How can anyone lead such a tediously blameless life?" asked Phryne crossly. "He even paid his bills on time. And balanced his cheque book weekly."

"Only you, Miss Fisher, could express irritation with a corpse," remarked Jack. "I'm going to take away the diary anyway." Phryne leaned down and picked up the waste paper basket, poking through it with a desultory air. Then she stiffened.

"Jack, what's this?" He came to look over her shoulder. She held a single sheet of crumpled notepaper, on which was scribbled a succinct message in capital letters.

"YOU'RE NEXT"

Their eyes met.

"Clearly, someone thought he wasn't as blameless as he appeared," said Jack. "Well done, Miss Fisher."

She preened. "Perhaps we should grill Miss Stubbs about Father Ryan's state of mind last time she saw him," she suggested with an alacrity that was bordering on unbecoming.

"Perhaps we should," he agreed.

Miss Stubbs, though, was unhelpful.

"Really, he seemed quite as normal, Inspector. I mean, he had a headache, he said, and asked for an aspirin, but that wasn't at all unusual. He's a martyr to his headaches." She realised her mistake. "Was, I should say."

Phryne could see her eyes becoming dewy again, and decided it was time they beat a hasty retreat before Jack decided to proffer a gentlemanly hanky.

Really, how could anyone manage even to _cry_ prettily? It was Positively Rude.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

"You're looking for an expert with a stiletto."

Mac was in her stride, which given the fact that the milk had yet to arrive on Phryne's doorstep was, in Phryne's opinion, a bit much.

Jack was also rather irritatingly on the ball.

"Why expert, Mac?"

She reached behind her for the tagged murder weapon and proceeded to demonstrate.

"The Stiletto. Weapon of choice for efficient killing since – heck, medieval times."

She stood in front of them and thrust the blade forward.

"You can just – stab. So, That will probably, eventually kill your subject."

"There _was_ a lot of blood," remarked Jack thoughtfully, unless his thought was supposed to include those people who would really rather consider blood after the sun was over the yardarm; in which case, he wasn't being thoughtful at all.

"However, if you were killing someone with one of these, it was generally a bit more, well, workmanlike."

Keeping the handle of the knife at the same point, she rotated the blade to left and right, up and down.

Phryne gave her best female friend her best withering look.

"I thought we had an agreement that unpalatable subjects during the hours of darkness, which this might as well be, were made palatable with strong spirits or otherwise left for the tasteless masses to consume?"

Mac had the grace to look ashamed. "True. Sorry, Phryne. But that's what happened – there are multiple lacerations to the vital organs, despite the entry wound being relatively small, although," she warmed to the subject again, "you can look on the bright side."

Jack and Phryne's eyes met. Only Mac could have a bright side for the acts currently being described.

"The victim didn't know a thing."

"What do you mean?" asked Jack.

"That glass that you gave me with dregs of communion wine? It also contained a high concentration of chloral hydrate." Mac straightened, put her hands on her hips and nodded at each of them in turn.

"Somebody slipped Father Ryan a Mickey Finn before he was killed."

Phryne's interest was piqued.

"So they wanted to be sure he wouldn't fight back?"

"Got it in one, Phryne Mine," replied Mac happily. "Is it too early for a scotch?"

"Absolutely not," declared Phryne, with relief.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

While Jack returned to City South to try to track down the owner of the stiletto, Phryne headed home. An idea was forming in her mind and she was impatient to put it in to practice.

Marching in through the front door, she hung her hat on a peg and went straight to the telephone.

On connecting with the St Peter's Rectory, she was in luck.

"Miss Stubbs? Phryne Fisher. Glad I caught you. I was wondering if you might be able to pop over for a chat at some point today. Now? Well, yes, now would be perfect for me. Hop in a taxi, I'll pay for it." Ending the call, she wandered through to the kitchen.

"Hello, Mr B," she greeted him. "Prepare to receive a visitor – I am just about to be brilliant."

When the doorbell rang, Phryne opened it herself, and having paid off the cab, ushered Evangeline Stubbs into the parlour, where Mr Butler provided tea and some delicious slivers of lemon cake.

"Tell me, Miss Stubbs – do you like babies?"

After a short and highly satisfactory interview, Miss Stubbs was shown out, and Phryne went back to the phone.

"Dot? It's me. Are you going to be at home for a little while? Good, because I'm sending you a present that I think you might like. In fact, my intention is that you might like it for two or three hours every morning. You'll see what I mean when it gets to you. No, I'm not going to tell you any more, beyond saying that it's a bit of a gift for me too. I'll explain that part later." Humming 'Let's Misbehave' cheerfully to herself, she bade Mr Butler farewell and drove herself to City South.

Greeting Hugh Collins, she asked if The Inspector Was In, and being told he was, she sashayed into his office. Ignoring the guest chair, she hopped up onto the corner of his desk and crossed her legs. He watched appreciatively, and reflected that it was nice these days to be allowed to watch appreciatively instead of either watching nervously or pretending not to be watching at all. Was that a mark on her ankle? He stretched out a finger to check, because a mark on her immaculate stockings would be a terrible shame. It wasn't a mark, but she didn't appear to mind the attention, so he left his hand where it was.

"Detective Inspector, you may congratulate me," she announced proudly.

"I often do, Miss Fisher," he pointed out courteously. "Which particular aspect of your universal genius are we applauding today?

"I have achieved two things in one fell swoop. One is that Dorothy will get some regular respite from her howling babies, and the other is that she will, once duly rested, be able to assist us in the Ryan case."

Jack regarded her quizzically.

"Phryne, what have you done?"

She smirked.

"I've sent Evangeline Stubbs to work for her for a couple of hours every morning. I'm paying, obviously, because I want my assistant back as soon as possible. And whatever one might think of Miss Stubbs," she narrowed her eyes at him, and he promptly returned the favour, "she seems absolutely wild about babies, and very eager to contribute some funds to the family coffers."

Warming to her theme, she added, "I'm going to go and see Dot later on, and ask her to chat to Miss Stubbs about Father Ryan when she gets the chance. You know what Dot's like – simply brilliant at extracting information in the most unassuming way."

Jack had to admit it was clever.

"While we're on the subject," he replied, "I'm no closer to finding the owner of the stiletto, but we have got the next of kin for Father Ryan, and it's a cousin – who's living right here in Melbourne. In St Kilda, in fact." He tipped his head in invitation. "Want to come along?"

"I'll do better than that, I'll give you a lift," she said graciously, and led the way to the Hispano.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

The door in Alma St was opened by a heavy-set man in shirt sleeves.

"Yes?" he asked abruptly.

Jack showed his badge. "Detective Inspector Jack Robinson, sir. Are you Martin Ryan?"

"I am." Phryne reflected that, if this was an example of Ryan's conversational style, the interview was going to take a while. She moved to Jack's shoulder, and introduced herself.

"May we come in, Mr Ryan? I'm afraid we have some bad news," asked Jack, wondering what he would do if the man refused. Fortunately, after only a moment's hesitation, he stepped back and gestured them to enter the house.

"Thank you," Jack removed his hat and essayed, "you have a cousin, Father John Ryan?"

"I do," Words four and five from the next of kin. Even Hugh Collins' note-taking would have coped with this speed of dictation.

"I'm very sorry to have to inform you that he has been found dead, Mr Ryan. In fact, it appears he was murdered."

"Murdered?" Ryan's expression was blank. "You must have the wrong man. My cousin's a priest."

Deciding that it would at this stage be insensitive to point out the use of the title "Father" in his previous statement, Jack swallowed awkwardly and confirmed, "Yes, that's right. The incumbent at St Peter's, in South Melbourne."

Ryan sat down suddenly.

"Mr Ryan, I'm sorry, but there are some more questions we need to ask," Jack continued. "We have reason to believe that your cousin was under some kind of threat. Had he appeared in any way worried? Was there anyone he'd talked about?"

Ryan was still in a daze.

"What? Threat? No. I can't believe it. No, he'd not said anything. I only saw him the other day. We had a drink."

Phryne decided to take a gentle approach. In her most honeyed tones, she asked, "He'd only been in Melbourne for quite a short time, is that right?"

Ryan looked at her as though seeing her for the first time. "Yes … yes, that's right." He visibly collected his thoughts, and gave them his full attention.

"We're the only two left now, of the family. He decided he wanted to come and join me here, and came over on the boat about six months ago." He looked out of the window, clearly struggling a little. "He felt he was really lucky to get St Peter's – there's quite a young congregation, and there's loads going on …" his voice died away as realisation dawned of the severing of his own link with that church.

He looked up at them. "Do you have any ideas at all?"

Jack gave him the standard "we're-pursuing-all-leads-at-this-stage" and could tell it didn't cut much ice with Ryan.

"If you think of anything, sir," Jack hurried to finish up the increasingly uncomfortable interview, "could you let us know?"

Ryan agreed that he would. They let themselves out; it didn't appear to occur to him to get up from his chair. Or perhaps his legs still weren't working. They were both prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Returning to the Hispano, they got in and sat for a moment, debating next moves.

"What about the stiletto?" asked Phryne.

Jack grimaced. "The trouble is, they're more common than you'd think. Trying to isolate the source of a single, fairly indistinguishable knife is proving almost impossible."

"So what does that leave?"

He shrugged. "All we can really do is work our way through the interviewing the congregation, trying to find any hint of someone with an argument against Father Ryan. Collins is doing his best, but so far, there's nothing."

She laid a hand on his knee. "Let me know if you need my interrogation skills, Inspector."

His lips twitched. "I think we can spare the congregation that penance at this stage, Miss Fisher." He traced her cheekbone with his finger. "In any case, I'm rather enjoying your _skills_ and don't feel particularly inclined to share them …"


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Dorothy opened her eyes and turned on her back in bed. Smiling to herself as she stretched, she once more blessed her employer; Phryne was clearly sufficiently godlike to be able to provide a godsend such as Evangeline. Two extra hours' sleep each day, while still less than she'd have liked, was transforming her back into a human being with an interest in the outside world.

What had woken her was the sound of Miss Stubbs returning from taking the babies for a walk, so she rose and dressed, going through to the kitchen to greet them. As so often, the motion of the pram had put Gid and Meggie to sleep, so Miss Stubbs had left them by the back door in the fresh air. She was a firm believer in the virtues of Fresh Air, and Dot was so grateful for the help that she wasn't inclined to argue. She put the kettle on to boil, and the two women were soon enjoying a cup of tea and a chat.

"Are you still doing the nursery at St Peter's?" asked Dot. "I mean, now that Father Ryan's not in the rectory any more …?"

"Oh, don't, Mrs Collins, really – I can't bear it," exclaimed Miss Stubbs. "It's just seems so impossible. He was a lovely man, so kind to everyone, even when he wasn't feeling very well."

Dot pricked up her ears at this. "Oh, was he ill?" she asked in sympathetic tones.

"Well, no, not ill precisely – he just used to get bad headaches. I think he was taking aspirin almost every morning."

"The poor man," exclaimed Dot. "What did the doctor say?"

"He wouldn't go," said Miss Stubbs. "He would say, "It's just a headache" and take more tablets.

Dot shook her head sadly and carried their cups to the sink. Miss Stubbs got up.

"Same time tomorrow, then, Mrs Collins?"

"That will be lovely, Miss Stubbs, thank you."

As soon as the door closed behind the young woman, Dot made her way to the phone.

"Mr Butler, hello, it's Dorothy – please can I speak to Miss Fisher? Miss Fisher, hello. Miss Stubbs has just left. It might be nothing, but ..." and she explained the conversation about headaches.

"Interesting, Dot. You think there might have been something more to it than just a surfeit of noisy tots in the rectory?"

"I don't know, Miss, but is it perhaps worth letting Dr Mac know? She might have some thoughts about possible causes."

"Excellent idea. I shall telephone her straight away. Thanks, Dot, I knew getting Evangeline to help you out was a good plan!"

Mac was interested.

"Could be a variety of things, Phryne, though Dot's right – the prevalence of the headaches suggests there definitely was _something_ underlying it. Miss Stubbs didn't mention any other symptoms, I suppose? Balance problems? Speech problems?"

"'Fraid not, Mac, but I suppose she wasn't really looking for them. Let's face it," remarked Phryne, "she's not a highly experienced detective."

Suspecting that there was more to that observation than met the eye, Mac refrained from commenting, simply confirming that she would see what she could find, before ringing off.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

It was evening, and Jack and Phryne were relaxing over a whisky when there was a knock at the door, and Mr Butler ushered Mac into the parlour.

"Mac, come in and try this," said Phryne warmly. "It's from Islay, and it's glorious."

"I will, with thanks – but I'm big with news that you're going to want to hear," said the doctor. Accepting a glass of amber nectar, she took up a pose by the mantelpiece.

"You owe Dot a vote of thanks, Phryne," she began. "Once I'd decided to take a look at the brain of the deceased, the cause of the headaches was obvious."

Pausing for effect, she took a sip of scotch.

"Well?" Phryne wasn't known for her patience, and even Jack was leaning forward intently.

"Brain tumour," said Mac succinctly. "Frontal lobe. Well advanced. He'd probably lost his sense of smell as well. I wonder if anyone noticed any balance issues?" she meditated.

Jack and Phryne exchanged glances.

"But would it have killed him?" asked Phryne.

"Definitely – and probably within a matter of a few months, I'd say," replied Mac.

There was a silence.

"It makes even less sense than it did before," complained Jack. "Why kill someone who was dying anyway?"

"But it doesn't seem that anyone knew he was dying," objected Phryne. "Miss Stubbs said he was refusing to go to the doctor, so it seems likely that not even Father Ryan himself knew."

"And don't forget the note," Jack reminded her. "'You're next' suggests it's part of a chain of killings, but there's certainly nothing in Melbourne that we can tie in. I might have to see if we can get some information from the Irish police – maybe he was escaping from something there?"

They circled round the facts for a few minutes more, but got nowhere; eventually, Mac drained her glass and took her leave.

Jack stood, and drew Phryne to her feet, then asked diffidently, "Miss Fisher, please will you come home with me tonight?"

His worst fear was a polite response. He appeared to be on the receiving end of glee.

"Jack, I really wasn't sure you'd ever ask. I've rather felt that I was only to be allowed to see the side of you that you bring here."

"Oh, you're quite wrong, Miss Fisher," he replied solemnly. "I'm most eager for you to see all sides of me."

For that, she even allowed him to drive. At least it meant the journey was uneventful.

"Jack, your tastes in literature are … offensive," said Phryne, as she trailed a finger along the bookshelf in his study. "Boxing – Queensberry, of course," she nodded approvingly, "shooting … swordplay?"

She looked at him quizzically. He half-raised his glass in acknowledgement.

"I like to be prepared, Miss Fisher. Call me a boy scout of close-quarters small arms if you like."

With an embarrassment of opportunities to embarrass him with such a statement, Phryne was stymied.

She chose instead to pick out at random a leather-bound book on the expertise of one Achille Marozzo. Leafing through it, a reproduction of an old woodcut caught her eye; and the word _misericorde_. Focused now, she scanned the words and looked at her lover.

"Jack – Jack, we've been so blind."

The mystery was solved. Deciding what to do about it took much longer, and neither of the tireless pursuers of truth was entirely satisfied with the answer; other forms of satisfaction had to be sought instead.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

The following morning saw them back in Alma St. This time, Ryan let them in straight away.

"Have you found out any more, Inspector?" he asked.

"I believe we have, Mr Ryan," replied Jack, and looked to Phryne.

"Mr Ryan," she asked. He looked over at her.

"You said, when we came to see you the other day, that you'd seen your cousin recently," she said. Ryan nodded. "And you said you'd had a drink." Again, he tipped his head in acquiescence.

"Mr Ryan, was the drink by any chance one of communion wine?"

He looked up at her, and then looked at the floor. For a long time, he said nothing, and when he looked up again to speak, there were tears forming in his eyes. He collapsed into a chair.

"John came out to Australia six months ago because I was the only family he had left. That much was true."

He paused again.

"The thing was, the task he needed done could only have been performed by someone close to him – and he couldn't ask a parishioner, or a fellow priest."

"He knew he was dying; he knew that the end would be long, and painful. And given his faith, he couldn't countenance the idea of taking his own life."

"So he came to me, and asked the worst possible favour of me."

Phryne said softly, "He asked you to kill him."

Ryan nodded. "Not asked – begged. I said no, and no, and no, but eventually it was obvious that he was already suffering real agony, and I couldn't say no any more."

"Making it look brutal was his idea. He wanted to plant lots of clues that would make it look as though the person who did the deed hated him, while nothing could be further from the truth." The tears were running down his face now.

"The note," said Jack. "Misdirection, nothing more."

Ryan looked up at them. "How did you find out?"

Phryne spoke up. "It was the other name for a stiletto knife – _misericordia_. We think of it as an assassin's weapon, but in truth, it was as much an instrument of mercy killing – the deliverance of the _coup de grace_. Once we stopped looking at the killing as an act of hatred, the answer was staring us in the face."

Jack said, "I'm sorry, Mr Ryan. I will have to arrest you, but I have little doubt that you will receive a degree of clemency – I will do all I can to present the case appropriately to the judge, and the medical evidence will be supportive."

Ryan appeared unmoved. "I understand – and you must understand that I find I scarcely care. I lost my cousin, but he's not in pain any more. That's really all that matters, Inspector."


	12. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Jack popped the last piece of lemon cake in his mouth and rolled over on to his back, shielding his eyes with his arm. Phryne was sitting up, and watching Senior Constable Collins attempting to show Mrs Collins how to cast a fly. He was having little success, but neither of them seemed to mind. Eventually, she handed the rod to him with a laugh, and walked up from the bank to join Phryne on the rug, after a quick glance into the basket containing the twins.

"Dot, it's lovely to see you laughing again," Phryne smiled.

"It's all thanks to you, Miss Fisher – Miss Stubbs has quite simply transformed my life. I'm still a bit tired most of the time – I don't think anyone truly understands how having twins more than doubles the work! – but those two or three hours I get in the mornings let me get through the rest of the day so much more easily." She looked across at the basket. "And it's funny – I think that because I'm more relaxed, the babies are, too. They're sleeping much better these days."

"That would explain why I haven't caught Collins napping at his desk lately," remarked Jack, eyes still closed.

"What's happening about the baptism?" asked Phryne. "Is there another priest that can perform it?"

"Yes, Miss – I asked Father O' Leary if he could help out, and he's delighted." Hugh had reeled in his line and strolled up to join them. His eyes met Dot's, and a message was clearly sent. She bit her lip and looked at Phryne. "Actually, Miss, there was something we wanted to ask you … and the Inspector. I hope you won't think us very presumptuous …"

Phryne laughed out loud, "Dot, you couldn't be presumptuous if your life depended on it! Ask away."

"Well, Miss … my mother's going to stand as godmother to the twins, because it has to be a Catholic who'll promise to bring them up in the faith; but we – Hugh and I – we wondered if perhaps you and the Inspector would be witnesses? It's just that as well as growing up knowing about the Catholic faith, we want them to know about things like loyalty, and bravery, and friendship, and …" Dot was bright pink now and becoming more and more tongue-tied.

Phryne turned and gave her assistant a hug that left the girl quite simply breathless.

"Darling Dorothy, just when I think you couldn't give me any more joy, you put some icing on the cake. I would be absolutely honoured. Jack?"

"As Phryne said, it's an honour to be asked. And I really think that you need to start calling me Jack, Dot – at least when we're not at the police station!" he smiled, and shook Hugh's hand.

They packed up the picnic, and started to walk back to the car. Phryne took Jack's arm and looked up at him, her eyes dancing.

"Who'd have thought it, Jack? Me, standing in a church and making a promise?"

He surveyed her face speculatively.

And grinned.

"Miracles can happen after all, Miss Fisher."


End file.
